A Long Look Back: A Sentimental Journey of an American Growing Up in France 

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper,
to taste
4 tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil
4 tbsp. chilled unsalted butter, diced

1/2 cup diced tomatoes
8 button mushrooms, sliced (champignons de Paris -ideal)
1 large shallot, finely chopped
1/2 cup white wine
1⁄4 cup brandy
5 tbsp. Demi-Glace
2 tbsp. minced tarragon

Preparation:

Ingredients

1 (3/4-pound) piece Gruyère, rind discarded

4 slices Canadian bacon (alternatively, use prosciutto)

1 veal tenderloin (1 1/4 pound), trimmed and cut crosswise into 4 equal pieces (tournedos)

1 tablespoon finely chopped shallots 

1 tablespoon unsalted butter

Sea salt an freshly cracked pepper

1/2 cup crème fraîche (alternatively, please make it from scratch)

Preparation

Now about those wines...

1. 2 medium fingerling potatoes
2. 4 slices of smoked bacon
3. 1 1/2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
4. 1 medium onion, thinly sliced
5. Salt and freshly ground pepper
6. All-purpose flour, for rolling
7. 1/2 pound cold all-butter puff pastry

Serves 6

There are two ways that one can prepare this dish. One way is in a large pan (some would argue, perhaps the more traditional style) or second, cooked slowly in an oven. Either way is fine and believe me, the end result is equally delicious. Poussins are 1-lb. squab chickens, larger and meatier than Cornish game hens. This classic Norman preparation, named for the superior calvados-producing region of Pays d'Auge, can be adapted to larger chickens, an ex, other fowl, or pork. In this instance and to remain true to the recipe, I will leave it as our six cute little poussins who lost their way home.

Ingredients

6 cute little poussins (or 2 boneless chicken breasts filet per serving)

2 small apples (tart variety)

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

4 tbsp. softened butter

3 1/2 oz chicken stock or fresh cider (from the press out back) 

1 cup of button mushrooms (or champignon de Paris)

2 cups pearl onions 

1⁄2 cup+ calvados (I suppose you could use ordinary brandy, just don't tell me)

3⁄4 cup heavy cream or creme fraiche (ideal)

Directions

Preheat oven to 400°. Wash the birds thoroughly, then drain and dry with paper towels. Rub them with salt inside and out. Pepper each one generously.

Truss poussins in this manner: Fold wing tips back beneath shoulders. Drumsticks should fit snugly against the tips of breastbone. Hold in place by tying the legs together with kitchen twine, then wrap long pieces of twine around the birds to hold things close to body, then wrap it back around the birds and close up tail pieces. Tie twine in bows so it's easy to untie after cooking.

Rub birds with butter. Arrange in an ovenproof pan so they do not touch. Scatter peeled onions around birds. 

Quarter and core apples and cut into small cubes, add-in half the apples and the mushrooms. 

Place pan in lower third of oven and cook for at least 45 minutes, basting several times. Prick fat part of drumstick on 1 bird after 45 minutes. If juice runs clear and drumstick moves easily in its socket, birds are done.

Transfer the now compliant poussins and onions to a serving platter. Scrape pan drippings into a saucepan with a rubber spatula, bring to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer for 2 minutes. Use chicken stock as necessary. Add in remaining half of apples. Warm calvados (take a shot just to be sure), add to the pan juices, and flame. When flames die out and you've collected your eyebrows, stir in cream, and continue to reduce sauce until thickened. Adjust seasonings as needed with salt and pepper. Pour sauce over and around poussins and serve.

Serving suggestions

Lightly fry off large slices of French bread (one per portion) to make a crouton and lay this on a large warmed plate. Place chicken on the crouton and mask with the cream sauce. Garnish with a sliced apple and a little parsley and serve to your famished guests! For desert do include a selection of fine cheeses from Normandy such as Neufchâtel, Neufchatel, Pont L'Evêque, Livarot and of course, the world-famous Camembert. All are to die for without question!! Have the Calvados on standby for any emergency.

Now about those wines...

Very little need be said about today's selection of wines. I turn to the Val de Loire because it is home to some very enjoyable light wines such as a Chinon-an old favorite on mine from long cafe days and nights in Paris. I've also included a Vouvray which just happens to be one of my daughter's favorites, and I can see why. I've noted an excellent Semillon from Autralia's Hunter Valley.  Lastly, the Bourgueil and Graves are legendary in their own right and hardly need an explanation other than my recommendation to just drink and enjoy and damn the torpedoes! 

Semillon - Hunter Valley, First Creek Winemaker’s Reserve

Graves - Bordeaux Blanc, Château Graville-Lacoste

Vouvray - Val de Loire, Domaine Jean Claude Bougrier 

I was recently asked a most ghastly question: When in Paris, where do you go for a real American breakfast?

Trying valiantly not to be too flip, I suggested that, Madame, perhaps the next plane out of Paris to the U.S. would be a good start. 

I am of two minds regarding best breakfast and Paris. I know plenty of my compatriots have searched high and low in the City of Lights for a place like home that will serve real breakfasts, you know, American-style breakfasts. For many it's a way of clinging to their roots in a strange town full of people who don't speak real American. I will lay my cards down, dear readers and state that I have simply no,  and I mean that quite emphatically, interest in wolfing down an American-style breakfast (read: largess) while cornered at a table with my beloved compatriots in Paris. Call me finicky. You can shoot me now or perhaps later, after breakfast. If truth be told, arguably, the best place to have your last breakfast in Paris is in bed. Merci.

I have always held the notion that the French are not ones to go "hog-wild" for le breakfast; it remains something of a mild curiosity that les Americains would want to indulge in a monumental meal before nine in the morning! Les French seem to me quite happy with a yogurt, a croissant or brioche, and a cafe creme. If you add une petite amie into the equation you'll have all the ingredients for a very romantic French breakfast. Some would argue that in itself constitutes a regular petit dejeuner. Another story altogether. 

Allow me to strap on my feed bag before proceeding further. Let's face it, we Yanks like, no, love, the thought of Big Breakfasts, it brings out that Paul Bunyan in all of us, the flannel shirts, wool cap and boots to be sure and standing ten feet tall. Survival of the fittest, full stomach and ready to conquer the world or maybe just the Mall of the Americas. The American breakfast is a classic among classics. It never ceases to amaze me that we continually insist on having that proverbial dump truck pull up to our plates and unload a ghastly combination of foods all generously lacquered with home-style maple syrup. You know I'm not that far from the horrible truth. We need to admit that. It's a first step.

Pull off the freeway and stop at any dinner or "greasy spoon" slide into that booth or perch yourself on the red Naugahyde stool that goes round-n-round, because you are about to enter into a culinary twilight zone. Miss Mabel, you know the one with the little pink hat and matching apron with those comfy white institutional crepe shoes? She'll be right with you "Hunn." Yes, Mabel with the voice that screams "two pack-a-day/shot o' Jack" will  gladly recite the menu, flapjacks or waffles (four or six) with or without two or four eggs, with or without ham, scrapple (a mush of pork scraps and trimmings);steak and bacon, two rolls and a pad of butter. No substitution please! Now, will that be with or without fries and gravy on the side? Or would you prefer hash browns or grits? It's a proud moment indeed when your order arrives; your arteries will stand up and give Mabel a "high five" because this is what we mean when we say "Breakfast is ready in America!" Don't try and convince me otherwise. No cute little pot of jam with a strange selection of breads and a cup of coffee with a handle that's smaller than my thumb can ever be considered a real breakfast! That’s fine for Barbie and Ken. But not for me.

I am going to go out on that proverbial limb, once again, and suggest that there is not a live body anywhere in the good ol' USA who has not thoroughly enjoyed, at one time or another, a heaping power breakfast. The kind of breakfast that leaves your body stunned! It's a 9-11 breakfast for obvious reasons. But who cares? It's as American as standing in line on the boardwalk in 110 degrees to buy a bucket of greasy fries or a Pennsylvania Dutch creation the size of a flying saucer smothered in powdered sugar or maybe just a soft pretzel the size of a coiled boa constrictor, lathered in Mr. Yellow Mustard and all washed down with a gallon of some syrupy soft drink. I can assure you, you won't ever catch me doing that! Ever again. 

The positive news is that having  an American breakfast at an all night diner somewhere off Route 66 at five o'clock in the morning or ten o'clock at night will not cost you anywhere near the price of an American breakfast served in a Paris local that has about as much Gallic charm as Euro Disney. 

From the Little Coffee Pot, Naugahyde roadside heaven, Flo and Mabel at your service, I return to the question of where to find that quintessential American breakfast in Paree. I dialed up a few of my connections - still friends -who seem to me to have a better pulse on these things and  more tolerance than perhaps yours truly. No question about it, they would run to Joe Allen, the Indiana Cafe, The Real McCoy or Breakfast in America. Now, I'm no Inspector Clouseau, but there seems to be something of a discernible pattern in their suggestions. In the end I made two very reasonable suggestions: One was "L'Américain"  breakfast served at the Hôtel Plaza Athénée on the Avenue Montaigne where one can very nicely load up on pounds of eggs any style you want and just keep 'em coming. All for the moderate price of fifty-five euros. I recognized this might seem a bit pricey so I made another suggestion. Over on the Avenue George V you can get a much better deal at the Hotel George V. There they have an American-style breakfast to beat the band.  Fresh juice, cereals, eggs any style and chocolate croissant! All for fifty-one euros. Much cheaper. They speak American too! 

If it’s your last day in Paris, have breakfast in bed. C’est plus facile and more fun!

Anglers of the world, despair not as the trout season in France runs until the 3rd Sunday of September. You have plenty of time to plan your trip. As for me, I was dusting off my fly-fishing equipment the other day and looking dubiously at my collection of fly rods, reels and numerous tangled lines while I relived great moments in angler history like the time I cleverly hooked my finger instead of a trout. In my mounting anticipation of eventually matching wits against the clever trout community, I pondered my choice of eventual destinations. I had been to Normandy and enjoyed the icy waters and generally rugged surrounding and the rich food and the shot of calva before breakfast. But I knew there were other regions in France well known for their fishing such as the Camarque and Jura, the Dordogne and the Pyrénées. Too many choices, I was already getting anxious. 

Now I enjoy my solitude as much as the next person but figured who better to invite to come along with me than my good friend Luc, aka four-fingers Luc, aka Beau Jeste. This little expedition, I knew, would be right up his alley as he is always one to jump at an opportunity to match his well honed skills developed over years of chasing bad guys around the world against that of the great untamed wild, big game hunting or fishing as it were. Predictably, Luc was ecstatic with the news and immediately started in with his fishing exploits. I reminded him that I was well aware of his exploits having seen him, first hand in the Mediterranean battling a French swordfish who "cried uncle" or "monsieur" after the first shotgun blast was fired. I told Luc to leave the grenades, anti-personnel mines, and his trusty Glock safely at home with Anaïs-his lovely wife. Despite my advice, I knew his Kukri curved dagger from Nepal or his saw-toothed assault knife or possibly both would be tucked away somewhere just not in my back. In some small way I found that comforting. 

1. Heat butter in an 8" skillet over medium heat; cook, stirring, until solids turn dark brown, 20–25 minutes. Remove from heat; whisk in vinegar and lemon juice; set sauce aside. 

2. Pour oil into a 6-qt. Dutch oven to a depth of 2"; heat over medium-high heat until a deep-fry thermometer reads 350°. 

3. In a shallow dish, whisk together milk and eggs; put flour into another shallow dish. Season fish with salt and pepper. Working with one fillet at a time, dip fish in flour, shake off excess, and then dip in egg mixture and shake off excess. 

4. Return fillets to flour; transfer to a rack over a baking sheet. Working in two batches, fry fish until golden brown, 5–6 minutes, then drain on paper towels. 

5. To serve, divide fish between 4 plates; sprinkle almonds on top. Whisk sauce and spoon over fish. Garnish with parsley; serve with lemon slices.

and grab you and never let you go. If its not the story of Jeanne d'Arc, it's  the beauty of the Renaissance, or perhaps the magnificent châteaux's that seem to dot the landscape. One or all of these will surely capture your fancy. The region is home to such well known names as Chambord, Bourges, Amboise and Blois, favorite residences of French Kings and Queens from the middle ages to the Renaissance; household names like Louis XII, François I, Henri II, and Catherine de Medici are but

examples of those who would call the Loire Valley, their home. But beyond kings and queens, the Loire Valley has also  inspired some great artists and big thinkers - from Honore de Balzac and Leonardo da Vinci to Georges Sand and Rene Descartes. It's all about the richness of history and a richness that has indeed blessed this garden of France. 

Let me pose a simple question: What does a Muscadet, Sancerre, Chinon, Bourgueil, and a nicely chilled Pouilly-Fumé possibly have in common with Rillettes, Crottin de Chavignol, potted rabbit, a fricassée of chicken cooked in white wine from Anjou, partridge with wild mushrooms or perhaps pork medallions cooked with prunes, cream and white wine?  If your answer was: "Typical foods found along the Atlantic City boardwalk" you are most certainly wrong. The correct answer would be that these are just some examples of the traditional food and wine selections from the Loire Valley, home to outstanding grape varietals and regional foods that will have you coming back and begging for more. 

Little Known Factoid: Did you know that the Loire is the longest river in France, and the wine appellations that stretch along it, from the Atlantic Coast to the center of the country, produce more white wine than any other region in France. Can you imagine. A cornucopia of white wines, plenty to drink for everyone! Maybe that's Heaven? Clearly I got a thing going with wines from the Loire Valley and not the least bit ashamed to admit it. I have long suggested or at least made strong references to the pure enjoyment of drinking a Chinon or a Bourgueil. They are usually on the wine hit list in many a Paris bistro because it's simple, elegant, light, tasty and pairs with so many dishes. Enough said.

I had some difficulty in selecting a dish that would not only reflect the region, but be tasty and do-able in the sense that readers would not be put off by it's difficult or complexity or that it would require far too much prep time. One of my goals has been to discuss good French food and wine in the context of its locality in France. That way it is a pleasant mix of learning something new with something delicious. I hope that's understood and found useful. With that in mind, I have selected a little dish that will let you begin your trip to the Loire Valley. Always start on a full stomach, much like Napoleon's grenadiers. Please enjoy! I'll check back later to see how you're doing.

This is a wonderful dish made with free-range chickens and rich, white Vouvray wine. Adapted from a recipe by Chef Francois Salle when he was at the Auberge de la Brenne, just a few miles from the heart of the Vouvray wine-growing region. The restaurant offers the very best of the culinary traditions and fine produce of the Touraine region. Dishes like sausage and shallot tart and rabbit delicately stewed in a sauvignon sauce.

(Serves 6 delicate appetites or one very hungry couple.)

Option 1 (traditional) place the carcass, neck, gizzard, and heart in a large saucepan with 1 bouquet garni, the carrots and onions. Add cold water to cover dem' bones and vegetables. Bring to boil and simmer for 30 minutes. Option 2 (I'm in a hurry and desperate) discard the carcass and reach for a quart of chicken broth.

Melt the butter in a casserole. Add the chicken pieces and saute over medium-high heat until lightly browned on all sides (5+ minutes per side).

Sprinkle the flour evenly over the chicken pieces. Add the Vouvray (taste first to ensure quality control) and add the remaining bouquet garni.

When the stock has simmered pour it through one real fine strainer and add enough of it to the chicken to cover it by about 1 inch. Season with salt and pepper and simmer, covered, over low heat for 35 minutes.

Remove 4 cups of the cooking liquid from the chicken and place it in a saucepan with the mushrooms, cervil and tarragon and simmer briskly. 

Combine the egg yolk and the creme fraiche and whisk it into the mushroom mixture without allowing the sauce to boil. 

Arrange the chicken pieces on a warmed serving platter. Spoon the sauce evenly over the chicken and sprinkle with chopped parsley, if desired. Serve with steamed potatoes. I would expect a plate cheeses of course, and some fruit -maybe for desert...or maybe not.

Now about those wines...

100% Chenin Blanc "Cuvée Silex" refers to the flinty stones that make up a large part of the vineyard's chalky soil, contributing a minerally, almost sea-briny nuance beneath the Vigneau-Cheveau's aromas of honeyed apple, peaches, mango, honeysuckle and wildflower fragrance. On the palate; mildly tart, lush, flowing, refreshingly balanced, with a tremendous presence of peach, baked apples and minerality. Delicious! I would gladly finish another bottle while you cook!  

2010 Dom. Joseph Mellot Pouilly-Fume, Loire Valley, France

In the glass this 100% Sauvignon Blanc shows pale gold in color, with a complex nose dominated by enticing mineral notes and aromas of fresh citrus. The palate is elegant and balanced, showing a wide array of zesty fruit notes, white flowers and crushed stone. The finish is very fresh yet lingers pleasantly. 

I should just state that it's a Sancerre and stop there. But, this little gem has an expressive nose of citrus zest and mango, delicate on the palate, deftly balancing flavors of lemon crème, crisp acidity, and subtle minerality. The lengthy finish shows hints of stone fruit and a mouthwatering freshness that begs for more. Please!

In the glass this electric Rosé is pink with ruby-colored highlights, clear and brilliant. Notes of crushed red berries and ripe peach on the nose lead to a wine that’s fresh and soft on the palate, showing lovely depth and finesse. The finish perfectly balances fresh fruit and mouth-watering acidity. Delicious!

When in search of a good story, I inevitably consider my appetite compass and my unending search for good solid food du pays and seek divine inspiration from there. One thing for certain, I had to venture away from ground zero, the glitz of high rise monuments to money, the waterfront, the floating mansions, the glamour and the global legions of paparazzi that is Cannes. It was all very suffocating. As the sun slipped quietly away over the Baie de Cannes, I decided it was time that I too slip quietly away in search of Cannes' vieux quartier and the whispered promise of a fine meal.

Le Suquet is the old quarter of Cannes and known for its climbing, winding cobbled streets laid out some 400 years ago. Le Suquet was originally a fisherman's neighborhood and thankfully the streets are now lined with very good local restaurants and many, if not all, paying homage to their fishing heritage. My culinary GPS was letting me know I was on the right track and getting closer. I knew that somewhere, tucked-in amongst the bistros and restaurants lining Rue Saint Antoine, I would find my real story. A culinary encounter of the best kind - une vrais trouvaille. 

Voila, there tucked away among other restaurants lining the rue d'Antibes was my destination. A most charming little establishment that had managed to successfully hold on to its tradition and served Provencal style dishes prepared with the care and respect for the original recipes. There was clearly no other option. Sipping my way through a chilled bottle of Rose de Provence Corail, 2010, I had great inner turmoil deciding between the Estouffade provençale, which is beef with red wine and beaucoup garlic and the Ange de mer served with ratatouille maison. I chose the monkfish and it was quite simply superb! I over indulged myself, which happens sometimes, and started with the house fish soup and the accompanying rouille which was spectacular. I somehow charmed Madame into revealing a few cooking details about my main course on the promise that I would return soon with a busload of my tourist friends, all very hungry and sunburned and of course yelling in English to be better understood.  A great meal, a great adventure and maybe a story too.

Make sure your white or rose wines are well chilled.

Remove the longest of three filaments which is often used as a lure to attract cooks as well as other fishes, which the monkfish then typically swallows whole. You've been warned! I saw this happen once and I was at lost how to explain to two crying children.

Heat oven to 450°F. Toss eggplant, zucchini, bell pepper and onion with 2 teaspoon oil in a bowl.

Add thyme; season with salt and pepper and toss again. Coat a shallow baking pan with cooking spray.

Arrange vegetables on pan and roast until tender, about 20 minutes. Stir in garlic and marinara.

Cover loosely with foil and roast 10 minutes more. Remove pan from oven. Stir in chopped basil. Rub fillets with remaining 2 teaspoon oil; season with salt and pepper. Nestle fish in vegetables; cover loosely with foil.

Bake until fish is just cooked through, about 10 minutes. Top with basil leaves and capers.

And now about those wines...

You are not going to be anywhere near wrong by sticking with local/region wines - a good rose or a white du pays and you will be in heaven, I can assure you!

2010 Saint Roch Les Vignes Rose, Provence, France

50%  Grenache/50% Cinsault. This Rose shows soft, delicate aromas of cherry,  strawberry, blood-orange, watermelon, and chalky/mineral notes. This wine is bone dry my friends, and mouth-watering. A real "no  brainer" for salads, springtime fare, parties on the deck or when looking out at the Baie de Cannes!

2010 Domaine de la Fouquette, Rose' d'Aurore, Provence,  France

65% Grenache/30% Cinsault/5% Rolle. The color of this wine is  immediately captivating; displaying a spectrum of pale salmon, pale pink, and  silvery-watermelon in the glass. On the palate, this  wine has a presence of cherry, strawberry, faint cranberry, with  a touch of tangerine, watermelon, and a dusty minerality. Impressive  balance and a truly stunning wine.

2004 Sorin Cotes de Provence Cuvee Privee, Provence, France

2007 Mas Bruguiere La Grenadiere, Côteaux du Languedoc, France

OK I fall on my sword and I'm recommending a little wine that is in the "general area" but not from Provence but rather the Languedoc region. It's and exceptional one and worthy enough for me to break my golden rule: go global drink local.  This gem is 60% Syrah, 20% Grenache, 20% Mourvedre. The characteristics of the terroir unmistakably comes through this wine with beautiful hints of lavender. You can close your eyes and almost be there yourself. Très evocative, highly drinkable and reasonable. The trinity of heavenly delight.

Throughout Paris, in every arrondissement, a special breed of talent rises well before the sun even thinks of getting out of bed.  These are the citizen bakers of Paris answering the clarion call for fresh, crunchy, tasty, aromatic, warm and all quite delicious baguettes. It it a demanding public to be sure, yet these artisans are not one to loaf around, they willingly slave away, mixing, pounding, pulling, and rolling out their secret; a secret more jealously guarded than the Crown Jewels themselves.  Why this slavish devotion you ask? What could possibly drive each and every self respecting boulanger/baker in Paris to such demanding standards of excellence? Bakers know full-well their demanding public expects that baguettes will meet, if not exceed their own personal standards of perfection. But beyond that, there is something far more powerful that drives Parisian merchants of crusty and delicious heaven; they all share the dream of winning the much coveted title "Meilleure Baguette de Paris" or the Best Baguette in Paris. Not only will they have the Baguette d'Or or Golden Baguette to place in their vitrine for all Parisians, and of course for their neighbors to see; but more importantly the winning baker becomes the sole supplier of baguettes to the Elysée, the very home of the (new) Président de la République. If it was the White House, undoubtedly somebody in Washington would whine and complain for one reason or another and look for a legal reason to halt such foolishness or most likely it would end up in the black hole of democracy - the U.S. Congress- where the issue would be beaten up, never ever rise to see the light of day. In Paris, France, we're talking about les World Series as nothing is more important to to the French (and with good reason) than their bread. Not an election, not even a revolution. That can wait, more bread please? Mes amis, it's about bread and culture and style and respect and pride and bragging rights. Madame, the baker's wife, has undoubtedly already forgiven her husband for his little follies, whatever they were, they surely pale in comparison to the golden icon in the front window and bragging rights with her friends 'till the cows come.

And the cash? If you're doing the math, figure on thirty baguettes a day to the Elysée for three hundred and sixty five days. It's more than a few Euros, it's a lot of dough! 

So what do we know about this year's winner? Tucked away in the 18ème arrondissement, 159 rue Oredener to be exact, one can find the Boulangerie Mauvieux, that would be Monsieur Sebastien Mauguieux, baker to the President of the French Republic. After many attempts I was finally able to reach Monsieur Mauguieux by telephone, and asked him how he felt, now that he was the personal baker to the President. Here is what he said.

" Et bien oui, on est très content et pour moi, un honneur prestigieux et une reconnaissance exceptionnelle. I resisted asking him if he would be going to Disney World - figuring he wouldn't really have that far to go. He added that he would manage to take a vacation in August. I was going to follow that up by asking if the Elysée closed in August but switched gears with my line of questioning.  

(adapted in part from The Paris Café Cookbook)

Ingredients

2 tablespoons olive oil

4 cloves garlic, chopped

3 onions, chopped

2 tomatoes, peeled and chopped (see Note 1)

2 green peppers, thinly sliced

1 red pepper, thinly sliced

a healthy dash of cayenne pepper

a healthy dash of Spanish smoky paprika (see Note 2)

1/2 cup white wine (such as Bordeaux blanc, Mâcon)

1 tablespoon sugar

1/2 teaspoon dried thyme

salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 tablespoon unsalted butter

9 eggs, beaten

6 slices country ham

1 tablespoon fresh parsley, chopped

1 Napoleonic saber

Preparation

First saber a bottle of chilled champagne and serve yourself, that is, if you still have a hand that's attached.

Heat the olive oil in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. Add the garlic and onions and cook, stirring, until translucent, about 8 minutes.

Add the chopped tomatoes, green and red peppers, cayenne pepper and Spanish paprika, white wine, thyme and sugar. Season with salt and pepper to taste, reduce the heat to low,and cook gently, stirring occasionally, for 35 minutes.  I covered mine for a good 20 minutes first.

Heat the butter in a skillet over medium-high heat. Pour in the beaten eggs, season with salt and pepper, and stir with a fork until they are cooked through. Remove from the heat.

In a nonstick pan over medium heat, brown the ham slices lightly on both sides, about 3 minutes on each side.

To serve, combine the scrambled eggs with the pepper and onion mixture and top each serving with a slice of ham. Add parsley for garnish.

Note 1: To peel tomatoes, place in boiling water for 30 seconds, plunge into cold water, and peel with a sharp knife. Alternatively, don't. The peeled whole tomatoes in can are a fine substitute. Don't worry, they won't come and get you.

Note 2: The original recipe just called for Cayenne pepper to which I have added Spanish Paprika and for the better! However, I would have used Piment d'Espelette because that truly is the local/regional red pepper. If you don't want to buy the rather pricey Piment d' then Cayenne and Spanish Paprika gets you pretty close.

Now about that Champagne ...

Champagne  Les Pionniers Brut NV, France - Young, breezy and very  fresh (reminds me of someone long-ago in Paris) at a decent price – you can't ask for more than that. This is in  the snappy, whistle-clean aperitif style rather than rich and food-worthy, so  chill it for a spot of glass clinking with friends.

Kir  Royale - Pour iced champagne or  sparkling wine into a large chilled wine glass, add 1/2 ounce of crème de  cassis, and stir gently. Garnish with a twist of lemon peel and toast your favorite revolution.

Asda Extra  Special Vintage Champagne Brut 2002, France -The words 'Asda' and  'champagne' might not seem like traditional bedfellows even for the French, but open your mind. This is a  wonderful vintage release from a good year, full of toasty, buttery richness and  with a dry, satisfyingly full-flavoured finish. I served it to some friends to go with  a smoked-salmon starter, and it went down like a storm. Forgot the main course but everyone was happy.

Savoy  2000(American Bar, The Savoy,  London) - Take 2/3 ounce gin, 2/3  ounce Midori, 1/3 ounce Limoncello, 1-2/3 ounces mango juice. Pour into glass  frosted with sugar, and top with champagne. I was first introduced to this most refreshing pause in '45 whilst at The Savoy.  

Roederer Estate  Anderson Valley Brut, California- Reviews say it's easy to mistake this California-made Roederer Estate NV Brut for fine French Champagne, partly because its made using techniques developed by top French producer Louis Roederer and drinking directions are in French, voila! Experts say the … expandbouquet of cherry and apple gives way to flavors of citrus and  spice. 'Tis true.

Chanel No.  6 (Because a lady can never  have enough Chanel nor tire of receiving it.. that's what the old man told me.) Pour 1 ounce vodka, 1  ounce Chambord, and 1 ounce chilled pineapple juice into a champagne glass. Top  with well-chilled champagne. Add a fresh raspberry. This will cool her down to a working temperature.

Nicolas Feuillatte Brut NV, France

The whisper among self-proclaimed critics is that  Nicolas Feuillatte Brut NV Champagne is an excellent value. Although not as  refined or elegant as vintage Champagne, non-vintage Champagne really showcases  a winery's house style, and costs less. Fairly light and delicate, and a great complement to  party foods. You can, and should, stock up on winner for parties, unexpected guests (!?!) or for pure personal pleasure. The last has my vote. 

Midnight  Kiss Cocktail or The Morning After (you decide)

Rim the edge of a wine  glass with white or gold sugar. Pour 3/4 oz. well-chilled vodka into the glass, and fill  with champagne or sparkling wine. Top with Blue Curaçao. It was at a bar in Willemstad...that evening, how could I ever forget?

And dare I forget??

Cajun Bloody Mary  (a few of these and you'll actually believe you're at Harry's Bar)

4 oz. tomato juice

1 oz. beef broth

―    John le Carré,    Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

It was going to be a lovely late fall day  in Paris, the kind of day that brought out the best in the City of Light. The mighty chestnut trees lining the broad avenues and the grand boulevards were proudly showing off their fall foliage  hinting that winter's approach might just be around the corner. With the morning chill, one found that a smart tweed or maybe a light sweater was indeed a perfect companion. By mid-day, the  gentle warmth of an autumnal sun could almost fool you into believing that it was spring not winter that was around the corner.  It felt good just to be in Paris. 

The man passed through the heavy wrought-iron front gates of the American Embassy at 4 avenue Gabriel. The Marine security guard stood at attention as he passed through the gates for indeed the man worked in the Embassy and held the official title of Vice-Consul, American Embassy, Paris. Those facts were indisputable and true however any other similarities with the Consular Service ended there. His work behind the walls of the embassy was quite different to say the least as he did not concern himself with visas, lost passports, stranded Americans or those who found themselves at odds with the French police. To a certain extent, it could be said that his work was really just a continuation of his wartime service and more often than not with many of the same men and women who had been part of the "Oh-So-Social" club. But with the onset of the cold war, some things had clearly changed. Old war enemies were now friends while some of and yesterday's allies were not be trusted today. The game had become more complex with ever greater ambiguity than  before. The only constant was that it remained quite deadly.

The American was in his early forties, of medium build and height, with curly black hair and a receding hairline. He would not be expected to normally stand out in the crowd as someone who was an American and glaringly so. If anything one would have thought the man to be just another European, French most likely or perhaps a Swiss. His command of the French language was second to none and could easily have any French person believing he was who he said he was.  The American was well dressed that morning but in that understated prep-school, Ivy manner that spoke volumes to a well trained eye. A muted tweed jacket (tailored by Gardiner and Woolley, London SW1) with a silk cream colored pocket square, a white linen shirt, collar bar and regimental tie, grey flannels with a perfect crease and cuffs that barely covered a pair of argyle socks and highly polished loafers, the copper pennies left out. The American glanced at his elegant paper-thin Cartier tank watch, it was almost noon. He hurried to the Metro and and within minutes was at the George V stop from there only  a short walk home to the apartment at 11 avenue Victor Hugo. He made a quick stop at their local Boulangerie Patisserie. Oui merci, he answered the bubbly serveuse behind the county,  his wife was resting but otherwise feeling fine. She had taken an intense interest in his wife's condition and was always full of homespun advice. Getting her to the country for some good fresh air was her favorite remedy. In point of fact it was her only remedy. It was always something to do with "the air."

He enjoyed being home for lunch especially now with his wife who was expecting their first child. Their apartment building was a stately Haussmanian with a pair of giant double doors and on each of balconies above, extensive and ornate iron work. The American couple lived on the 4th floor, apartment 4-B to be exact; he closed the grated cage door shut as the elevator jerked up and began its painful rise, creaking and groaning as it slowly moved up to the fourth floor. The apartment was elegantly furnished with a tasteful assortment of French and English antiques, many of which had belonged to his parents when they had lived in Auteuil. A large Persian covered the living room and a well worn but smaller Chinese rug covered the floor in the dining area. Over the fireplace hung an ornate framed painting of his mother as a young lady circa 1914 just before she was to visit Paris in time for fall social season. She would see Sarah Bernhardt on stage.  Bookshelves, floor to ceiling, framed either side of the windows and were filled with any number of first editions in beautiful leather binding. There would never ever be enough room for all his books. He kissed his wife ever so gently noticing that she seemed pale and in his humble opinion, had not fully recovered from her mother's extended visit. He had personally given his mother-in-law the gold plated tour of the Paris he loved and knew so well. He presented his wife with a box of marrons glacés (glazed chestnuts) from their favorite patisserie hoping it would bring smile and indeed it did.  As for him, he found those "things" far too sweet to his liking. Their femme de ménage,  Amélie, announced that lunch was ready; the housemaid had prepared an easy meal of cold roast beef and roasted potatoes, green salad a cheese plate. After a glass of Beaujolais, two demi-tasse, and endless cigarette he left. A kiss, à bientôt ma chérie,and was gone. She would stand by the door and listen to the elevator creaking and groaning as it made it way down to the rez-de-chaussez; straining her ear, she could just make out his footsteps in the hall, then the sound of the massive front door slamming shut.  

Out on the avenue Victor Hugo, the American easily waved down a taxi  and got in, direction l'Eglise d'Auteuil.  He looked at his watch there was plenty of time before the rendez-vous. In his mind, he ran through once again,  the file on André Valient, real name Dimitri Vasilievich, code name "Lambert." Dimitri occupied the post of Special Assistant to the Acting Secretary General of the Parti Communiste Français better known as the PCF or the French Communist Party. Dimitri was born of a Russian father and French mother. Before the Second World War he had served in one of the International Brigades sent to Spain to fight against Franco. In France, the father had served in a liaison capacity with one of the many French communist resistance splinter groups who claimed that only they carried the true mantle of Soviet socialism. After the war Dimitri's father, by then well along in his years, at the invitation of the Party, returned to Moscow as a hero of the Soviet state. He was tried on unspecified crimes against the party and the Soviet state, found guilty and summarily shot. Dimitri had been approached and befriended by the  Americans who gave him an opportunity to channels his bitterness and anger toward  the Soviets. Dimitri, rapidly became one the best sources of information for the Americans on the inner-workings, political infighting and key figures in the PCF as they worked to support non-revolutionary communists in France and offset an-ever growing Soviet influence on the more radical elements in the PCF.

One thing was clear to the American, and for that matter most of his colleagues at the Paris station, that as an asset, "Lambert" was for the moment, invaluable and the required caring and feeding to nurture him along was just part and parcel of the business of working an asset, any asset for that matter. It was trade craft 101. You befriended them,  became their confidant, you shared in their happiness and comforted  them in their moments sorrow,  and you reassured them in their moments of uncertainty and doubt, which was often. Yes, you worked them, urged them along, lectured them or used the carrot and stick approach when necessary. Then one day, they outlived their usefulness and the strings were cut. If they were compromised, you cut your looses realizing they would met a sure and certain fate.  The American knew this all too well. It was a cold hard fact and it was a reality. He had run agents and set up networks in Paris during and after the war. He had won some and lost some. It was the nature of the business. These days, it seemed, it wasn't always the Soviets that bothered him though but the French intelligence service, or the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire (DST) (Directorate of Territorial Surveillance) that more often than not was the source of his frustrations. They were fair weather friends and allies who enjoyed playing both sides of the fence and were remarkably good at it. They would share lunch with you one day and the next they traded information on one of your assets to the Russian intelligence service in return for information. Trust, in this business, was always a commodity in short supply and it seemed more so these days.

The American pointed to the Eglise and asked the driver to stop in front. He waited a moment then entered the church and exited by the side door. He strolled to the news kiosk and payed for a copy of Le Monde, a relative newcomer to the cut-throat newspaper business but rapidly becoming the preferred daily of French intellectuals, civil servants, academics,  particularly those in the higher echelons. Within minutes the American was descending the steps to the metro and two stops later he got off  at Porte d'Auteuil. Once more he took his time stopping occasionally and giving the impression of carefully inspecting a storefront window. The American liked Auteuil for the simple reason that it brought back memories of his Paris days when he was a young student. The area is considered as one of the richest in Paris, with calm, select and very expensive neighbourhoods, including any number of mansions. Recalling his French schooling, he knew that the village dated back to somewhere between the thirteenth and seventeenth centuries and had once been a fashionable country retreat for the French elite during the reign of Louis XV. Auteuil, once home to Victor Hugo, and Molière and the birthplace of Marcel Proust, had been incorporated into the city of Paris around 1860. The American walked along the boulevard  until he reached the specific park bench and sat down while carefully placing the folded newspaper to his right side and he waited. With his back to the Bois de Boulogne he surveyed the grand buildings along the boulevard, but the one that he inevitably returned to was 43 boulevard Suchet.  He recalled that the building had been designed in 1925 by the then well known architect Charles Labro.

The American looked at his watch and waited. He light a cigarette and stared at number 43. He thought to himself, "Auteuil 12-06" he knew that number by heart just as he would always remember his dog tag number. For just a moment, he allowed himself to go back to another time. He watched the front door of the building swing open wide as two young boys charged out swinging their book bags at each other, having an imaginary sword fight then  running down the boulevard and on the school. The other boy was Fred,  his very best of friend who lived on the third floor while he was two floors up on the fifth. He could visualize everything, almost as if it were yesterday, one of the family's gleaming Rolls Royce pulling up to the curb as he watched Pierre, their chauffeur, swiftly coming around and opening the back door holding it ready as mother, elegant and  dressed in her finest would be followed by Papa in a somber three piece banker's suit, hat and gloves and forever checking his gold pocket watch mindful of the stock market's opening bell on Wall Street.  How would the market open today, would they continue to slide or was the worst over he wondered almost daily.  The market would never recover in time the American though to himself. Never in time. The course of world financial events would change their lives forever.    

He looked at his watch, they were having friends over for cocktails that evening. He'd pick up a bottle of Scotch on the way home. 

"Never trade a secret, you'll always get the short end of the bargain"

―    John le Carré, The Mission Song